Sparks
by pauciloquent
Summary: Wiress's thoughts before and during the Quarter Quell. The mood of the story changes very rapidly. It revolves around the theme of sunlight...if you read this, you'll know what I mean.
1. Chapter 1: Colors of Thought

**This is my first fanfiction! It's basically about some of Wiress's thoughts, the day before the Quarter Quell. This first chapter is about her actual thoughts. The next one is about when she asks Beetee. What is sunshine? That's what she wants to know, and not just regular old facts. I know this chapter is somewhat short, but it won't really fit if I combine it with the other chapter. It's in a world of its own :) **

**The Hunger Games Trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins and Scholastic, neither of which I am affiliated with. **

Tomorrow is the...er...

I am lonely in my cold grey house. I walk down to Beetee's home in the District 3 Victors' Village, taking in the brisk air. The sky seems lonely, too. There is no light. It's all obscured by that blasted smog. I hate it. I want to see what real sunshine looks like.

What is…

Is it white? Cold, hard, oppressing? The lights in all the factories are like a…fake sun. Why not real? Is it white? Like snow? Not the president; the almost solid water. From fire, snow is extinguished. Water overpowers sparks, if they aren't electric. That's the job of baking soda (which is also white). Is it…weak? Like snow? Does it melt? What is it?

Copper…is that what it is? Like my little district token, that copper gear. Something most people can afford, but still has its rare, shy beauty. Is that it? Gleaming from a certain angle, dull in a different one. I'm like that, somehow…copper and I are somehow similar…I'm not noticed much. But I can be. Does it tie back to the plot? Copper, like my chariot costu—I'll try not to—

Is it blue? A pale, sweet blue, like the tint of the mechanical giraffe I had as a child? Innocent? Like the wry-smiled moon, the one I saw in the illustrations?

Surely it isn't grey, angry grey. That's the smoke and smog that weighs down on our heads…little clouds, little dark, painful, angry clouds… Is it better than this? More…satisfying?

What is sunshine?

I must remember.


	2. Chapter 2: The Answer is Asked

"Beetee…" I enter Beetee's house, the day before the dreaded Quarter Qu—no, I'm NOT thinking about it. I'm always welcome here. Did all those thoughts really just run through my head? How long…

"Hello, Wiress. I can see you have a—"

"Question." I smile. Today is Opposite Day.

"I could tell by the way you were squinting your eyes, sort of looking into the distance like that. Noticed anything?" His own eyes twinkled.

"I—when I…What is…" I point at one of Beetee's many shelves. On it is a light bulb, partially in repair. It gave me a thought about…

"What is light?" he guesses.

I shake my head.

"Sunshine?"

I smile.

"Well, you obviously know the scientific analysis of it," I nod as Beetee says this, "but you want to know…more. Then again, you always do."

I smile shyly.

"I don't see sunshine very often," I whisper, "but I do want to know…what it looks like. So I can recognize it. If I see it again, before the…the…" I grimace.

Beetee realizes what I mean, as always, and grimaces back. The Quarter Qu—never mind. He then strokes a nonexistent beard.

"Well, sunlight, it consists of all the primary and secondary colors. The light spectrum. Put two spectrums end to end, and you get magenta. But—too simple. Too scientific. Needs additional complication…"

I grin. I know my answer.

"Beetee, you're a genius!" Now THAT'S new. "Sunlight can't be seen. Only if you shine it through a prism…but it has all the colors in it. Our eyes aren't prisms, but we still see the colors…So it's unrecognizable. Unless you look for it…I think I've seen sunshine today. I'll look for it again."

As I speed back towards my own dull, lonely house, sparks fly. Thank goodness my boots are heat resistant. Beetee stands there, a curious expression on his face, mouth in a perfect "O" of surprise. I'm unpredictable, but…ahem…not this much…

I can't even make sense of myself anymore, but I know my answer. Life is light. I don't even need to look for it. (But I will!)

And then, I find the… *waves hands around room*

**I know this sounds like the end of the story, but it isn't! There is LOTS more to come! **


	3. Chapter 3: Panic Fire

I reach my house. My eyes are closed as I approach it, not paying attention. For once. I don't need to open them anyway. Nothing can possibly go wrong. Tasting anticipation, I almost break the door off its hinges. I say almost, because my door is not there at all.

I step inside, and I feel intense panic striking me like a spark. I say like a spark, because it starts in one little corner of me, and then it spreads and spreads, until it fills up every nook and cranny of my brain. I am in panic.

My house? It is not there. What used to be my house is now a thin layer of ash on the ground. You could easily mistake it for dirt, as the soil here is an unfertile grey. Like ash. But I know what it is. It smells like fire. Like panic.

My house was in a panic-fire, too. I am not alone.

Why was my house burned away from me? It was cold and lonely and grey, but I still need it. It might have been sad, like the whole of District 3, but it was my house.

I only wanted to recognize sunshine. I thought that I had seen it somewhere in my house. Color is caused by light. We don't have a lot of color in my district. Just tints of metal. But I had some. We all had some. If there was sunshine, we would have color. Real light makes the best colors. The Capitol and their crazy dyes? Those aren't real colors. Those are fake. Real colors are the ones that smile shyly when they're in the sun. We don't have sun. Fake colors make your eyes hurt, because they pretend to be real, even in the dark. They're too bright and bold and sugary. Sugar is bad for you.

Why was my house burned down? The Capitol doesn't like real colors. Except for a few Capitolitans who know what real beauty is. The Capitol doesn't like those people.

They don't like me, either.

I was never expected to win my Games. I was the weakling, the one who screamed at things that were harmless. I was too alert. They thought it was a weakness. My stylists looked down on me. They said I was homely, but I know they just thought I wasn't fake enough. Like them. My mentor was good to me, though. She said that my alertness could help me. She said that it was a good thing that I could sense things no one else could. I thought she was wrong.

She wasn't.

But now? The Capitol hates me. I won the Games by opposing their lives. By being alert and true to myself, I made an enemy. But for what reason would they burn down my house?

I now know that the Capitol burned down my house. I know for sure now, because I kneel down toward a painfully bright medallion on the ground. Unlike our dull, shy copper, it gleams even in the smoke. It is a metal I haven't seen in my life, and cannot identify. On it is an eagle, its feathers outstretched. In both of its talons, it holds arrows of war. No olive branches. This is the Capitol's doing.


	4. Chapter 4: A New Perspective

**Beetee's POV **

Wiress isn't the sort of person who runs off somewhere without a word. As fickle as she is, I can usually tell what her actions indicate. Not now.

Those words she told me, I could grasp them, though. She wanted light. She deserves it, really. It is true, after all; unless you look for it, sunlight won't be noticed.

Just like Wiress.

She ran in the direction of her house, judging by the imprints in the soil. There were tiny burn marks in the ground. I didn't know she was capable of running this fast. She must have had a realization, and had rushed back to her home in an attempt to remember it and perhaps prove her point.

I sit on the concrete floor of my porch. Behind me is my window. Through it, I can see the shelf Wiress had pointed to, the light bulb. I was trying to make it work more efficiently, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the bulb. I just gave up my work. There it sits, lost. Forgotten. I have given up on the light bulb.

Here in District 3, everything is grey. There is ash covering the ground, lots of it. Almost as much ash as there is coal dust in District 12, or wood shavings in District 7. There's an almost constant feeling of hopelessness. We used to be one of the wealthiest districts in Panem, until the Hunger Games, I was told as a child. District 3, 4, and 8 rebelled first. We then became one of the poorest districts.

Why is it that your success should be based on the belief of other people? We didn't want our children to be sent into a battle for the death. We never even did anything wrong. The districts that are the wealthiest today are the ones that believed the Capitol's brainwashing.

Now, a lot of the people in District 3 walk around wearily. We are all grey in appearance; dark hair, pale skin, dull clothes. Most of us are afraid. Alert, like prey. We are rebellious inside, but fear showing it. Our only weapon is intelligence. That, and dexterity from threading wires from a very young age.

Wiress is usually overlooked. But she shouldn't be. She detects things before anyone else does. She isn't afraid. She's cautious. She's been having trouble getting her thoughts across lately, but if you figure them out, they make perfect sense. I usually finish them for her, though.

The Capitol doesn't like District 3, but they don't like Wiress and me even more. Especially Wiress. They want blood and death and pain, not meticulous planning and thought. That's why they favor the Careers.

Wiress is one of the smartest people in our district; the problem is that she takes everything from a completely different frame of mind. People just pass her off as crazy, but I know that's not true.

She wanted to learn how to recognize sunlight. I think that she just did. But what's taking her so long?

I stand up very straight all of a sudden. I can feel that something is wrong. Wiress, apparently, has an influence on me.

I walk in the direction of her footsteps. The slow pace soon turns into a frenzy. I see Wiress sitting on the ashen soil, completely still. She looks at me, and no tears run down her face; instead, it appears that she is deep in thought. As always. Then, something hits me.

This used to be her home.

"Beetee, why did the Capitol burn down my house?"


	5. Chapter 5: The Unreason

**Snow's POV**

I watch the world underneath me from one of the glass windows of my mansion. Everything is under my total control, I am proud to say. Nothing can happen without my approval—and if it does, actions will be taken. That happened a half hour ago.

I have a very passionate hatred running for District 3. They produce all of the Capitol's technology, and maybe one of the most essential supplies of goods that we need. The catch is their rebellious attitude. Well, actions must be taken. We don't treat them well.

They're all too smart for their own good.

Very rarely does someone from that district win the Games. It's usually Districts 1, 2 or 4 that wins. 4 used to be rebellious, but they quickly learned not to be. If this is the case, then they get a year's supply of surplus goods. It helps the other districts learn that if they follow my lead, their lives will greatly improve. However, it isn't always the case.

Every time a non-Career district wins, it only further probes the rebellious districts' desire to be as they've been—rebellious. No matter how hard we make their lives, they still manage to cough up a Victor now and then.

I remember the girl tribute from District 3 who won about two decades ago.

Her name was Wiress Jineer, and she particularly stood out from the other tributes because of her lack in strength. She was afraid of seemingly everything. She reminded me of a deer.

When she was given a pack of matches at the fire-building station, she began a fire unusually quickly—but then her eyes grew wide, and she ran away from it.

Apparently, in District 3, sparks are not a good sign.

She was good at the knot-tying station, as District 3 tributes always are, having tied wires all their lives. In camouflage and species identification, she excelled.

In the other stations, she had no strength. She was, ironically, thin as a wire, from the malnourishment that we succeedingly provided. The smallest weaponry was too heavy for her. Yet she won. How could she?

To ensure that she doesn't live to fight in another rebellion, in this Quarter Quell, I'll send back Victors from past games. Wiress is the only living female Victor that they have; her mentor was sentenced to hanging for talking back to one of the Peacekeepers. Let's see if she outlives this one.

Recently, it's been reported that she's somewhat losing her sanity. ***How DARE you!*** She is having trouble finishing her trains of thought, and another Victor, Beetee Connec, usually finishes them for her. She invents things, apparently, but we don't know much about these inventions.

A Capitol spy currently reports that Wiress has invented a device which apparently selects the density of the thread for you when sewing, ruling out human error. In Panem, I have passed a law which states that ALL inventions must be reported to the Capitol as soon as possible. Jineer has broken my law.

I sent that same spy out to burn down her house when she wasn't in it. The one thing that the Threes hate is sparks. I'll give them some.


	6. Chapter 6: A Single Shade

**Wiress's POV**

Beetee stands there, not quite comprehending what I just told him.

"Beetee, my house got burned down. Look," I say, pointing at the Capitol medallion. "I can think of several reasons for this happening, but which reason is true? Or is it a…a…"

"A combination of factors," he finishes softly, thinking.

It seems strange that I haven't reacted hysterically to this wave of events, but would it make things better if I did? It's far easier to deduce something as complex as this when in a calm atmosphere. That is, if it is as complex as I thought…

"Beetee, you know how much the Capitol hates me. I was one of the few Victors who won without using brute strength as a weapon. And the Quarter Qu…"_what good would it do to hide from the facts?_ "The Quarter Quell, they're afraid that I'll win again. You know, they're taking the past…the people from…the ones who…"

"The previous Victors, and putting them in another Hunger Games." Beetee completes once more. It's a privilege to have someone who can read your mind.

"If they don't want a non-Career district to win, they'll try to do everything possible to break…to break us, and especially me. Because I know too much about…"

"About the truth. Not only that, but you WANT to know it. It's your greatest strength, and probably the reason why the Capitol hates you. You have an unusually strong passion to know the truth," Beetee concludes.

Then I remember a mistake I made, which perhaps was intentional.

I have recently been working on a device which assists in sewing: it senses the density of the fabric you're using, and uses this measurement to automatically select the strength of the thread used. I was planning to sell it to a manufacturer in District 8 that's somewhat similar to District 12's Hob.

Snow had passed a law that stated that "all inventions must be immediately reported to the Capitol, or actions will be taken shortly." I never wanted to report this machine to the Capitol. Their lives are already too much at ease, and to give them further luxury? That's like giving a spoiled child money to go to a feast. The citizens of District 8, who rebelled alongside us and are in a very similar situation, deserve a little ease in their lives.

I never did get to sell them that machine.

I hug my knees tightly, and stare down at the ashes which used to be my home.

I tell Beetee my hypothesis. He agrees completely. He says that if he had been more true to himself, he would have hidden his inventions from the Capitol; but he was too afraid of the consequences.

I remember something. My blue giraffe was lost in the fire. I sigh slightly, but remind myself that I could always make…

My copper gear is in my pocket. I pull it out and scrutinize it carefully. On it is inscribed our district symbol. A trio of factories, surrounded by gears in multiple sizes. It's a sad sort of symbol, like all of District 3, but it still represents my home.

I realize that I don't need my house. As long as there's a District 3, I'll have a home.

But this might be the last time I see it.

"Beetee," I mumble, "I won't live through…"

"The Hunger Games," he finishes. "No, Wiress, I will do everything possible to ensure that you live. You are important to this rebellion. Wiress, you deserve to see sunlight. You don't need to recognize it. You can see it everywhere—even the Arena. Just forget why you're there. Just look at all of the colors there, the soft, pretty colors, the ones that are true. Like you."

"Look, Beetee, there's a…"

We both look to the right. There is a small, almost timid patch of moss growing in the unfertile soil. In the moss, in the very center of it, there is a single yellow daisy. The yellow is so pale, it could be white, but I know it isn't. It makes me feel somewhat hopeful.

"We have so few plants in…" I start.

"District 3, so we must let this one keep its life." Beetee finishes.

"This flower makes me happy. I will let it…"

"Live."


	7. Chapter 7: The Night Before The Quell

**The Night Before The Quell**

Beetee and I sit on the ashes of my house for a long, long time, until the fog grows darker than it was before.

We really can't see the sun or the moon in our district because the smoke obscures it all; we have to make out whether it's night or day by observing the color of the smoke.

Beetee takes a small, empty vial out of his pocket, and motions toward the ashes. I know what he's thinking.

"Beetee, if I took these ashes with me…they would make me…I would be…"

"It would be too painful for you to remember," Beetee finishes, and I know that's true. Everything I ever had was lost in the fire, including my little giraffe. At least I only work on my inventions at Beetee's house…they're still over there.

I still don't understand why they only burned my house down, not any other Victor's, not even Beetee's, but he says that it's because I'm the only living Victor to have won without taking a life.

Beetee starts a thought, "I regret…having to have…"

"Taken lives in order to save yours," I finish, for once.

"Wiress…I have a spare bed in my house. You can sleep there, until the…"

"Quarter Quell. I really don't want to…"

"Go back into the arena."

"I don't want to die, Beetee. All of these things we could all do—everyone in Panem—I don't want it to just end—just like that. Everyone and everything has a purpose, just like a machine. I don't want to be like a…"

"Broken machine. Without purpose."

"Beetee, will it...will the..."

"Will Plutarch's plan work? It must. I couldn't live if you don't survive this Games until the plan is enabled. You are the very best friend I have ever had, Wiress-I couldn't stand it if you died."

"Beetee, you must...live. You're more..."

"Important? Absolutely not! If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't know what to do in the first place. You are every bit as important to the rebellion as I am, Wiress-and perhaps more so."

"I...I'll try to forget about t-tomorrow. Let's think about other things. Happier things. Why are we wasting our time talking about this blasted Quell?"

"You're right, Wiress..." We lie down in a patch of sidewalk that isn't concealed with ash, and stare at the fog for a long, long time. What would the sky look like if all of this fog was blown away? I'd love to see that. A clear sky. I've only seen that in other districts.

We both sigh, and grimace shortly afterwards. We trudge back to Beetee's house, and I crawl into the spare bed. The room is covered in all sorts of little gadgets and gears, reminiscent of—of my house. My house is now a broken machine. Without purpose. I sigh again.

I stare out the small, circular window. Through the think smog, I can see a faint light. It would have been nice if it was a star, but it was probably just an electric light. I try to imagine it as a star, anyway. I forget about tomorrow.

I go to sleep with a wry smile, like the moon I saw in the illustrations. I dream of a star. A pale yellow one, almost white. But it isn't.


	8. Chapter 8: Time and Peaches

I wake up, savoring the comfort of the soft grey pillows my head currently rests on. I may never see comfort again.

I don't want to get out of the bed, but my urge is overpowered by the truth. It won't be the best time of my life, but I must live. I've been assured that Plutarch's plan will work. Everyone will live—that is, everyone who is in the rebellion. Beetee and I are in it.

Outside, the fog is pale grey. Not a clean white, like I wish it would be. Not even a pale yellow, like the daisy. Just a boring, dreary pale grey.

It is morning. The morning of the Quarter Quell.

I sit up in the bed and hug my knees tightly, as I did when my house…when my house was burned down. I sigh very deeply, and indulge in the sigh; I may never get to do that again. No time.

I want more time. The clock in the room is ticking and tocking relentlessly. It'll do that for the duration of its life. I'm jealous of it. It controls us all, even more than Snow. It controls time.

I want to turn the clock backwards, so it'll be yesterday again. I want time.

Beetee enters the room. "Wiress, it's time…"

"To get up. I know." I rub my eyes wearily. Stupid clock.

"Wiress, I have…peaches. Your favorite. Do you want some?"

_Yes, I do._ My eyes say it for me. I love peaches, mostly because of their color—their sweet, gentle autumn-ish color—but also because of the taste. They are so delicate and fruity, and they remind me of—of nature. Of something that's so real, and true, and tangible. Not like the fake Capitol food. Of course, food is food, but it's nice to have something good for a change.

"Where did you get the…"

"Peaches? I traded them with some spare parts, in District 11. They needed them for their broken machinery."

"So it's a…"

"Win-win. I know."

We go downstairs, into the kitchen of Beetee's house. On the counter sits a bowl full of peaches—sweet, fuzzy peaches. We eat them indulgently.

"Wiress, I have too many peaches—let's finish them off. In case we don't—I mean, if we don't get a chance to return to District 3 again."

This makes me happy, as I've been longing for peaches for a while, and the last time I had one, it was on my Victory Tour in District 11—the mayor gave me a peach. It was a nice change to the dreary, terrible speeches I had to give to these people who probably hated me. But I also sense a hidden meaning behind Beetee's words. He caught himself, but…he was afraid that we wouldn't make it. I try to forget about that.

Now, I can have all the peaches I desire.

In unspoken agreement, we each leave one peach untouched, and take it with us to the Training Center.

We know what to do.


	9. Chapter 9: Somewhat Decent

My peach is still in my pocket, and I trust that Beetee still has his, too. We now have to go off to meet our prep team and our stylists and all those…those _people_, in preparation for that stupid event they call the chariot rides. I can't stand being around too many people at once, especially not…

We board the train to the Capitol. There are plush leather seats and pillows and all sorts of lovely things, but I don't like them. Too fake for my taste, I say. Not out loud, of course; that sort of thing could get you executed.

There's food on the train, lots of it. I don't give it a second glance.

Our escort is named…Well, he has a name. An unmemorable name.

Not that Capitol names aren't memorable; it's just that they're so…_weird _that you get tired of the craziness of it all, and you glaze over it entirely. That's why I don't know the escort's name. Not that I would care.

He seems to idolize artificiality. He is covered in paints and dyes and jewels and all sorts of things. I don't like them. Too fake for my taste, I say.

I hug my knees and stare out the window. I refuse to make eye contact with a single person, even Beetee. My eyes need some alone time.

The landscape changes from factories to trees to dirt to metal. And more metal. The Capitol idolizes metal. Anything metallic and shiny, they _adore._

There needs to be more nature here, but of course no one will listen to me. Especially if I say it to myself. But if I said it out loud, I'd get hung.

When I hug my knees, I make sure that my shoes scrape against the leather of the seats. My little act of rebellion.

We arrive at the Capitol, and get off the train. Beetee radiates sadness. I'm sure I do, too.

After all, my death is in a matter of days. I might as well start my suffering now.

But actually, I can't control that. I remember in my first Games, the chariot rides were just as bad as watching other tributes die…

The chariot rides. Shame on them.

And that stupid clock! I can hear it ticking and tocking in the back of my head, even though it's not here. I know that someday, a clock will lead to my demise.

I get a weird feeling in my head. Clocks must have something to do with it.

Shame on clocks!

Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I'm not. Either way, I'll try to enjoy my insanity to the best of my ability, until my untimely death in the Games.

I realize that everyone is staring at me. They are waiting for me to get out of my little mind-ramblings, in order to go to the preparations for the chariots.

Somewhat, but not really, embarrassed, I leave. We all leave. We enter a metallic elevator, which takes us up into a huge area in which I've been before. The place where a bunch of humanoids will rip off 75% of the hair on my body.

I lie down on a metallic table, and that is exactly what happens to me. I don't bother to remember the names of the people in the prep team. They say something about how I need an implant in my nose. I don't pay attention to it.

I say, quietly, "I don't need any kind of implant, thank you very much. You've already taken away from me a lot of things, both physical and emotional. I don't need anything alien placed inside me, too."

They look at me curiously, but go back to talking about some disaster that occurred at some party they were at. As if it matters.

They notice the peach I had in my pocket, and inquire about it. I tell them that I like peaches, which I do. But I brought it for a different reason (I don't tell them this).

They nod and chatter again.

Suddenly, they all leave the room. My stylist comes in. She's your typical stylist, in appearance at least; dyes, paints, and those sparkly things I saw on our escort.

Surprisingly, she seems pretty intelligent when she speaks.

"Wiress, dear, I'm your stylist. My name is Vivaria Remilus. Hopefully, I haven't disgusted you with my appearance. I'm not responsible for it, you see: it was done when I was only a child. I had no say."

In shock, I realize something. She's just like my mentor in my first Games! I can only hope that she won't be killed for saying something rebellious. She seems like a kind enough person.

She goes on to tell me about how the chariot ride costume will literally reflect my personality. It will be an ankle-length dress coated with dried petroleum jelly, with ultraviolet light bulbs embedded in the material. The bulbs will be turned on, and the jelly will glow under the black light. I'm so glad that my stylist has a solid understanding of science. I've always been interested by this chemical reaction, in fact.

I will also wear a crown made of the same material, also with black light inserted in it. I can imagine what it will be like. Spectacular.

Finally! A technological costume that will actually look good. She hands it to me, and I put it on quickly. I am dazzled by the beauty of it. This is what sunshine is supposed to look like. I will not be missed.

The other stylist, Kelius Storlinus, has also designed a costume for Beetee with the same principle.

At least the chariot rides won't be torture this year.

But there isn't a lot of fun in standing—or sitting—in one place for nearly an hour, and smiling and waving to the people who are betting how quickly I'll die. I shouldn't have…

I shouldn't have reminded…

I—shouldn't—have—reminded—myself.

We get into the chariots. I sit down and hug my knees for a while, up until the point where the ceremony begins. I stand up and smile somewhat. I know that the people are going to look at my dress instead of my face, anyway, so I don't smile much.

Or wave, either.

Another act of rebellion.

I don't want to look at the other tributes' costumes. I'm pretty sure that it's rare that a district gets stylists as good as ours, so they're probably writhing in embarrassment from their god-awful costumes. I'll try to give them a bit of respect before the Killing Games begin.

The Killing Games. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it…

Beetee is just standing there, not really doing much at all. Like me. His costume is, in fact, made out of the same material as my dress. It casts a strange shadow on his face that appears to be natural light. The light bulbs—they appear to generate natural light, yet it's actually ultraviolet light. How is this possible?

I like it.

Now, of course, we have to go to that blasted Training Center…

I still have my peach. I bump Beetee with my elbow, and I now know that he does too.


	10. Chapter 10: Apparently Training

We arrive at the Training Center about 7 minutes early. Because it's not time yet, we go over to Atala and make small-talk with her. She doesn't seem to quite understand what I try to tell her, but she certainly makes a good effort, and Beetee is there to translate. She admires us because of our dexterity. Although I'm not exactly graceful when it comes to walking. I trip easily.

Beetee does, too. I think we're siblings that were separated, we're so similar, but the odds aren't in that hypothesis's favor. Oh, well.

I'm distracted not by the various areas, but by the…other things around us. Immediately, at almost the same point in time, we both point out a…

"Chink!" we both yell. There's a force field set up, apparently to shield the Gamemakers. Well, I do have a very strong passion to punch a Gamemaker in the nose, but sadly, even without the force field, I wouldn't have enough will to do so.

It ripples slightly, like the air inside a hot oven.

The training has officially begun. Atala gathers all of the tributes in the middle of the Training Center, and tells us a few basic rules. Don't fight with other tributes, clean up after yourself, etc. I've been through this before.

Beetee and I go toward our first station, the knot-tying station. This one is one of my favorites, and reminds me of home…not necessarily my house, but District 3. Dexterity is one of our strengths. There's little else I'm good at.

The trainer recognizes both of us, and it's clear that he's fond of the District 3 tributes for their skill in this station. Instead of starting us with the basics, he gives us some complicated knots and goes off somewhere, to talk with Atala. We finish the knots in a few minutes and go toward the next station.

As we walk, it appears that the Careers are sneering at us. Not that it matters. Brawn is nothing without brains, and honestly…they don't have much of those.

Johanna Mason of District 7 yells something that vaguely sounds like "Hey, Nuts and Volts, what's up?" I don't feel insulted. She's been calling us that for years, although that may mean that she assumes me crazy…Am I crazy? I might be, but I can't tell for sure. I just never think the same way as other people. I think in opposites.

I notice that the ceiling has been painted a darker shade of black.

Is there such thing as a shade of black? Maybe there is. If you take something that's grey, and put it next to white, it'll look darker, maybe even black; if you take the same color and put it next to black, it'll look…lighter. Interesting.

Well, maybe there are shades of black.

Most non-Careers consider the Careers as bloodthirsty, dull savages; but if you compare them to someone like President Snow, they'll seem almost white, and Snow will seem black in comparison, ironically.

I'm not even able to make sense of my own metaphors now.

We're—finally—at—the—next…station…I think too much. It's the fire-building station. District 3's worst. I see Katniss Everdeen there. People call her the Girl on Fire. In my district, we call her the Spark Girl. She scares me somewhat, but real sparks scare me even more. Once we get to know her, though, she seems kind underneath her tough shell. We talk about our talents.

"I design…fashions. You know, like clothes and things," the Spark Girl says. She doesn't seem like a fashion designer. It's not in her nature. I doubt that she enjoys this talent, if it's actually hers.

I start, "I've been working on a...stitching device. It senses the density of the fabric and selects the strength." I notice that some of my kindle has fallen into a messy heap. I try to organize it, fearing the moment when it would burst into flame. If it will.

In District 3, sparks can mean disaster. One little flash, and a factory can go up in flames. All that hard work…gone. Like a broken machine. I sigh in remembrance.

"The strength of the thread. Automatically. It rules out human error," Beetee finishes. I'm glad he's here. "I've been working on a musical chip that can hold hours of songs, but can be concealed in a flake of glitter. It's been immensely popular in the Capitol." _But I wish it wasn't. They don't deserve our hard work, _I can almost hear him saying. He would have said that, I'm sure of it, if the Gamemakers weren't mere yards away from us.

"Oh, yeah. My prep team was all upset a few months ago, I think, because they couldn't get hold of that," Spark Girl says without emotion, attempting to be inconspicuous. She has succeeded.

Beetee and Katniss talk about other things, but I don't listen. I gaze off…until suddenly, my pit flares up in a huge, tapering spark that graduates to a flame. I jump backwards, scared by the suddenness of this…THING. It seems unearthly. I stand up and stay there, mystified. I look to see the reactions on the faces of others. Beetee has his back turned toward me and is still talking. I can see him push his glasses up on his nose. He didn't notice a thing. Spark Girl sees the fire, but is perfectly at ease with it. Of course. Distict 12. They set things on fire every day, what with the coal-mining. She must be used to it.

The flame is the color of the peach I hold in my pocket. I know that Beetee has brought his as well. We have brought them for a purpose. The fire warms my cheek, but I dare not touch it. It's so influential that it can cause change without even touching. I wish I was more like that.

It's the first time in my life I have been so at ease with fire. I haven't made a noise. I am completely speechless.

My mouth holds open. Beetee turns toward me, sees the fire, and makes a small jerk, but isn't particularly alarmed. Surprisingly, I'm not, either. Is the ceiling magic? Does the paint release some sort of hormone that causes calm?

Maybe I am crazy. But Beetee has always said that people who are crazy refuse to admit that they are.

I notice the force field chink again, and decide to point it out to Katniss. "Look."

Katniss thinks I am referring to Plutarch Heavensbee.

"No, no. There by the corner of the table. You can just…"

"Just make it out." Beetee finishes.

He understands (what a surprise) and explains what I mean. She seems amazed that we can recognize the force field.

She says that it was probably put up because of her.

She apparently shot an arrow at the Gamemakers last year—well, at an apple. But in their direction. I wish I had the courage to do that.

I widen my eyes. Beetee does the same.

She says that she was provoked, and wants to know if all force fields have chinks—or spots, as she calls them. We begin to explain, but lunch is announced.

I can hear Katniss talking with Peeta Mellark, the boy tribute from her district. She wants to eat with us, but goes to eat with District 11 instead. Peeta says that we're a joke to the others. Well, they do tease us. For no good reason.

She says that she wants us as allies because we're smart and resourceful. I'm surprised that she even understood my thoughts. Does that mean that she thinks I'm not crazy?

We sit down at one of the smaller tables. No one sits with us.

An Avox comes toward us, carrying towels. We give her our peaches. Her eyes widen in alarm, but wordlessly, we coax her to take them. She deserves them. She hides them in her cart and smiles faintly. She presses three fingers to her lips and stretches them outward. She seems familiar.

We eat the rich, uncomforting Capitol food. It doesn't taste like home, but it IS food, after all.

It's too fake for me, though.

They call us up for the private sessions with the Gamemakers. As tributes of District 3, I'm scheduled to go 5th. Beetee will go after me. I expect to get a score to match my number in line: a five. They want blood and guts, not meticulous planning.


	11. Chapter 11: Newly Rebellious

**I welcome constructive criticism, as long as you don't flame! I will write a shout-out to all who review this chapter on my next chapter of this story. **

We enter the waiting area, where we allegedly must sit until our private sessions with the Gamemakers. I am pondering over what I should do, but honestly, I don't really have a talent besides inventing. The Gamemakers won't be interested in an inventor.

It suddenly occurs to me that maybe that's an advantage. If they aren't interested, they'll just pass over me, so I can become more of a surprise to the others…

Then I realize the prospect of this whole event.

The Hunger Games is not a Hunger Games—it's a Killing Games and a Fighting Games and a Revenge Games.

The tributes are going to KILL. All of us will be forced to do so at one point or another—probably, at least. Against all odds, I somehow dodged that standard in my first Games.

I didn't kill anyone at all back then. I don't wish to do so now.

I realize that I'd rather sacrifice myself to the rebellion than kill someone else to stay alive. I know that Plutarch's plan is supposed to work, but I'm uncertain.

In this Quarter Quell, I'll at least try to make myself useful. If the others actually understand that I'm trying to be useful.

They start calling the first private sessions—Cashmere of District 1, and Gloss, her brother, who will go after her.

"Wiress, what are you going to do for the Gamemakers?" Beetee asks.

I think about that for a minute, and absentmindedly curl a finger around a strand of my messy black hair.

"Well…if there's nothing I can do that will interest them, I guess I'll…"

"Provoke them, like Katniss." I'm in shock, both at myself and at Beetee. He could read that from my mind so easily—perhaps it was showing in my facial expression? My eyes? It must have been rather hard to read. Perhaps we really were siblings, at one point.

I'm in shock at myself, because I actually willed myself to do that. If I actually do what I'm planning to do…it would be very satisfying.

In the morning before training began, as we were heading out, I sleepily picked something off the ground. Off the ashes of my house.

It was the Capitol medallion.

I don't know exactly why I did so, but even evil things can have a purpose. This purpose will backfire in the face of the Capitol.

**Beetee's POV**

We sit there on the bench, waiting for our private sessions. There is nothing to do, but technically, many things could be done. Many options weighed.

For one thing, I could stand up on the bench and start screaming.

I could also pretend to faint or even attempt to purposely induce amnesia, in order to forget the horrors of my past Games that I would now have to relive. But that would also mean that I'd forget about Wiress.

That would be, simply put, a catastrophe.

I look over at Wiress. A few moments ago, she had told me what she would do for the Gamemakers. As we were leaving the house the morning before training, I observed her kneeling down toward the ashes of her former house. She had picked up something that glinted strongly, and made my eyes water and hurt simultaneously. It was the Capitol token she had pointed out the night before.

She said that the Gamemakers wouldn't be interested in an inventor. I suspect that she's right. They prefer combat-related demonstrations. I know this from experience.

Somewhere inside myself, I am wary of what Plutarch said. I trust his plan and all, but I suspect that it will backfire.

And that Wiress will be the object of it.

I had observed Wiress's Games years before. Her district partner died in the Bloodbath, so she had to find a way to manage on her own. Nobody wanted to ally with her. Her strategy was to avoid and evade. She was lucky, in that this strategy actually worked. She didn't kill a single soul; except for the occasional animal that she caught using one of the intricate traps she pulled from the back of her mind.

She's not a murderer, like I am.

I wish that the wires would've backfired in my Games, that those children, regardless of whether they were Careers or not, weren't simply killed, just like that. I wish that I could keep my own life without taking others.

Wiress sometimes asks me if she's really that lucky that she survived. Now, she has to endure more years of this blasted Hunger Games.

She deserves better.

They call Wiress out for her private session with the Gamemakers, but she still sits there, intently gazing at a square on the wall ahead. I stroke her hand and tell her that she has to go now. She gets up sadly, eyes drooping sadly, but suddenly, they burst, almost with flame. It's like her eyes are on fire with energy. She smiles defiantly, widely, and flounces off. Surprising. You never know quite what to expect with Wiress.

**Wiress's POV**

I enter the Training Center, in which the Gamemakers are sitting at their table, gorging themselves on all matters of food. The fake kind. To me, it looks disgusting.

They aren't yet half-asleep, as they are by the time District 12 comes by, but they don't seem to be anticipating much from me. Self-explanatory. My plain, frail appearance might work against me. But then again, I have the element of surprise on my side.

I walk slowly and cautiously toward the fire-building station, keeping track of each step and misstep. I can feel the Gamemakers' eyes widening with alarm. No Three has showed this station off before.

I gather some kindling, rocks, twigs, etcetera and carry them to the middle of the floor, in front of the Gamemakers' table. I begin constructing a simple fire; the simplest there is in existence, I am sure. I brush my hands off and turn away from them.

Out of my pants pocket, I pull the Capitol medallion. It flares out almost—no, more than the Capitolitans themselves, indignant, insatiably power-hungry. Like Snow. I have never before thought that a piece of metal could demonstrate feeling.

It appears flimsy, though, and upon further inspection, it appears to have only been coated with a liquid metal solution, and been initially made out of hard plastic. Perfect.

I put it back in my pocket for the time being. I head back to the station and grab a small match. I strike it against the box and run back to my little campfire, feeling like one of the people who ran with the torch in that game they used to have hundreds of years ago, called the Olympics. All sorts of people allegedly played sports in that game. Killing was not allowed. How I wish I lived in that golden age of time.

I remember how much I hate clocks, although now is not the right time to think that. But I do see a clock over in the corner of the Center, almost at the ceiling. I insult it in my head. Gosh, I'm strange.

What was I doing again? Oh, yes. The match. It's burned out. I run back to get another one and strike it, and almost fly back to my fire pit, sparks seeming to come out of my shoes again. The Gamemakers look bored.

Maybe I should've used my shoes to start the fire.

I set the match against the very base of my campfire-pit. It rises slowly, slowly, and then FLARES. It bolts upward and outward. I can hear it roar. I can also see the chink in the force field between the Gamemakers and me; it ripples ever so slightly more than before.

I pay a silent vow of gratitude to the flame for the realization it struck in me.

Ever so slowly, I pull the Capitol token out of my pocket. The Gamemakers notice it now, and squint at it, looking at the intricate detail of the inscription on it.

I drop it in the fire. All of them exchange looks of surprise, even Plutarch. What I have just done indicates a great deal of…well, things.

The flimsy plastic of the medallion squirms and melts in the glare of the flame. It dissolves to a dark black—not light black, not regular black, just dark black—liquid, and then it sits there for a minute, and solidifies. It becomes a strange, foreign shape—at least to the Gamemakers. It looks oddly similar to my giraffe, but I don't believe in coincidences.

What I have just shown is that the Capitol will melt away and surrender to us, the rebels, in our fire. I suppose I don't fear sparks anymore.

Snow thought that sparks are the one thing the Threes are afraid of. Not anymore.

His plan has backfired: I have fought fire with fire.

I don't expect to get a very high score, but that was awfully satisfying. I can't wait to tell…

"Tell who? Gloss?" Beetee tells me as I come out of the room. He has a weird, curious glint in his eye. I haven't said a word yet.

"No, actually, I wanted to tell you. And…how could you…"

"Tell what you were going to say? Well, your eye movement indicated that you were—"

"Inquiring of something, and…"

"Your faint smile showed defiance. I can guess what you did for the Gamemakers. You rebelled."

"Like the Spark Girl." I smile widely. I have fear no longer.

"You know, the word 'rebel'. It reminds me of something. If you…"

"Sound it out slowly," I finish, "you'll get 're' and 'bell'. We're ringing the bell in their faces—so they'll realize what they're doing wrong. And if they don't get it, we'll do it again. We'll rebel. We will NEVER…"

"Surrender to the Capitol, and that is a PROMISE." We both smile. This is true.

I see sunlight in Beetee's eyes.

"Beetee Connec!" Plutarch calls from the door. It's his turn.

Beetee grins somewhat, in an oddly quirky way, an indicator of the fact…the fact that he'll do what I did.

And he won't care what anyone else thinks.

**Beetee's POV**

I enter the Training Center for my private session, a wide grin on my face. I really don't care what the Gamemakers will think of me. My score does not matter to me. I know that Wiress thinks the same way.

The Gamemakers look at me somewhat lopsidedly—except for Plutarch, of course, who's on our side. He just gives me a wry smile. I notice that there is a rug on the floor that wasn't there before. I suspect that it's there to cover something up.

I gingerly lift up one corner of it, and look at what's underneath. I see a ring of ashes, with a small, melted piece of plastic in the middle. Strange. I'll ask Wiress about it. I have a feeling that it has something to do with her private session. The Gamemakers have their backs turned, eating from the buffet behind them. I go to various stations and pick up a variety of tools and supplies.

From the snare-building station, I take several coils of copper wire and construct a simple trap, the kind you'd use to snare a rabbit.

I take another length of wire, this time tinted gold, and bend it into the shape of the Capitol seal. I attach it to the top of the frame of my snare.

I then turn toward the fire-building station and gather some kindling. I place this inside the trap. I put a match in my pocket.

I stare intently at the Gamemakers for a short while, almost daringly. They match my gaze in a few seconds.

I pull the match out of my pocket.

I strike it swiftly against the kindling just once, and small sparks fly. Smoke comes out of the kindling, and then it sets on fire. It alarms me somewhat, but I've had experience in this area of training. It used to be my worst. Typical of Threes.

The bottom of the snare catches fire first. This isn't electrical wire, just a metallic wire that you'd use for other practical purposes. It softens easily. The flame tapers upward, toward the rest of the trap. My crude, but still recognizable, recreation of the Capitol seal catches the sparks last of all. It slowly dents in the bright, true fire. It melts brilliantly, glinting in the fire, seeming to say its last words. _We didn't mean to do it, _the Capitol will say._ We only meant the best for you, but you rebelled. How could you reduce us so mercilessly? What have we done? _The Capitol will surrender to us eventually. We WILL, and MUST live in harmony. We will stop this foolish Hunger Games once and for all. We have made sparks fly, and they will cause a fire.

The Capitol seal liquidizes finally, settling on top of the heap of metal. I stomp out the flame, and smoke rises. I see a handful of ashes, topped by a copper and gold mound. We are the common copper, the one everyone can afford. But we can do a lot of things.

_If we burn, you burn with us,_ I can imagine Katniss saying. I hope that those dull Capitolitan Gamemakers will realize what I meant by this.

I have a feeling, just a slight feeling. Wiress did something very similar to what I did. I know that. Well, like tribute, like mentor, I suppose. Although I wasn't technically her mentor in her Games.

I grin again. The Gamemakers stare at me, mouths hanging open. Plutarch's eyes are wide, and he is grinning as well. That was oddly satisfying.

I sigh happily.

That was just what this little rebellion had up its sleeve, my dear Capitol. Enjoying the surprise?

**Plutarch's POV**

*stares ahead for several minutes*

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just slightly…dazed by what I just witnessed.

I don't think I would have ever expected Wiress and Beetee to be so…confident. What they just did could kill them before the Quell even starts. But honestly, I'm proud of them.

Wiress and Beetee both played with the element of fire. Both used something to symbolize the Capitol, and then basically melted it in a self-constructed fire.

That's self-explanatory.

Anyhow, District 3 isn't quite known for its skills in building fires. In their district, they're actually warned against it. But they both did that so effortlessly…

They had total control of everything they were doing. They did a good job of shocking those Capitolitan mustache-bearers.

I give each of them a 9, to show the other districts that they're a force to be reckoned with. But I don't give them anything higher, because I don't want them to be targeted. Alas, I have a feeling that the other Gamemakers will do just that.

I'm still in shock at these crazy geniuses from 3.

**After Beetee's Private Session (3rd person)**

Beetee walks out of the Training Center, back into the brightly lit hallway. He sees Wiress staring at the wall, squinting at it. He knows that she's noticed something that no one else ever will. As usual.

Wiress feels a sudden rush of air, and sees Beetee. She smiles lopsidedly, showing her teeth. For the first time in her life.

They make conversation with their eyes, and know what the other has done for the private session.

Wiress looks back at her wall, and Beetee does too. He now notices the pattern that she's noticed ever since they came inside this place.

One red square down, two black ones to the right. But there's a mistake.

The Capitol is lovely and everything as well, but they've made a mistake, too.

They will see sparks fly.

Both Wiress and Beetee smile rebelliously.


	12. Chapter 12: Not Surprising

**A/N: Special shout-out to Kassandra Lorelei and NutsAndVolts for reviewing my last chapter! I'll give you a shout-out if you review this chapter! **

**I accept compliments, but I'd like some constructive criticism as well! Just PLEASE, no flaming! Thank you! **

**Wiress's POV**

Beetee and I come back to our rooms in the Capitol. We sit in the living room. Our stylists appear to be elsewhere.

I turn on the television set. The training scores will be announced in 4…3…2…1…

They start. The tributes from 1 and 2 get pretty high scores, between 9 and 11. Nothing unusual as of yet.

I get a…9? I must not be seeing clearly. I blink and look again. It's still a 9. I think the Gamemakers are trying to single me out. Because of what I did in my private session. This score actually makes me pretty cheerful, even though I know it could lead to my death. I…if I…when I…

They noticed me.

I have a feeling that if it wasn't for Plutarch, I would've gotten a 12. Even worse.

It's rare that 3s get anything above a 6 or 7. I'll be noticed, certainly, but hopefully not TOO much. After all, Plutarch's the Head Gamemaker. His vote counts first and foremost.

Some of the Careers can be pretty nonattentive at times. If they glaze over my score...

Beetee gets a 9, too. I suspect that this is for a very similar reason. Although he'd still be known as a force to be reckoned with, even without this score. Wires are more dangerous than pattern-seeking.

He doesn't seem surprised, either. That's not...

Finnick from 4 gets a 10. Mags, his district partner, pulls an 8, surprisingly. She seemed like me when I worked with her in the Training Center; unnoticeable. But she was good at making hooks. Maybe that's why.

The other districts get mediocre-to-low scores, although both tributes from 12 pull their district numbers. Odd. It seems coincidental, but I still don't believe in…

I somehow know that I won't live through Plutarch's plan. I really won't be able to work with the others. Not that I'm not cooperative; it's just that nobody understands my way of thinking. I'll be overlooked. Plus, my score will urge the Careers who paid attention to the scores to go for me…even without it, though, they'd do the same. Some Careers go for the weaker ones first.

I'll be missed by some people, like Beetee and…and…and a few other people, who were all killed by Peacekeepers. For being rebellious. Like my mentor.

I sigh.

But I won't be missed much. I'm just the crazy lady from 3 who notices things. I can imagine some little child from the Capitol telling his parents about me.

"_Mommy, look!"_

"_Who's that, dear?"_

"_That's Wiress Jineer! She's the tribute from 3 this year. For the Quell. Look at her! She's so weird!"_

_(Mother smiles) "I see, dear. I can't imagine HOW she got this far. She's so WEAK! I expect her to die very soon now. Rumor has it that she's insane. I'd expect that that's not far off of the truth, sweetheart."_

_(Later, as Wiress dies) "Looks like I'm right! Hey, look at the tribute from 1 who just killed her! He looks so STRONG! Stands a fine chance, I say. Oh, he's just been killed by that girl from 12. Too bad, I suppose."_

_(The child grins)_

_**This is the sort of thing I'd expect to hear in the Capitol. I hate…**_

_**How could civilization turn out so badly? Will the world end before the sun runs out of helium?**_

I may be flexible, but I have virtually no brute strength.

I just hope that the rebellion will live through. I hope that these sparks taper up into a flame and extinguish the Capitol's injustice.

I hate injustice.

It's so…

_Cruel._


End file.
